


The Courage To Let Go

by jokeannnne



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: After it all fell apart, Closure, Evan climbed onto that same tree, Gen, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, There was also Connor, There were answers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jokeannnne/pseuds/jokeannnne
Summary: After it all fell apart, Evan Hansen climbed onto that same tree.One-shot.





	The Courage To Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [[DEH]松手的勇气](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/331014) by 衣十三（Jokeannnne）. 



> This is a translation of my own original work (in Chinese). I did it mostly as a see-how-you-do in English kind of thing. Unbetaed. I'm sure there is plenty of dumb mistakes, but I truly hope that you still find the story enjoyable. After all, Dear Evan Hansen is without doubt a piece of truly moving work.
> 
> In the process of correcting present/past tense.  
> 时态全错，我慢慢改T T

 

Evan Hansen took a deep breath. He began to climb upwards.  

 

He has been out of practice, so his movements are slow and clumsy. Yet he continues to bring himself up inch by inch, steadily, cautiously.  The morning mists has long since melted away under the sun, and the fully-awakened forest baths Evan in clean, green air. 

 

He climbs. The rough, uneven bark rubbing hard into his palms with each shift of hand, all the while making him more and more aware of a constant tickle on his skin—the sensation arises from pushing against the soft summer moss that grows on the surface of the tree. They are fluffed and dry under his fingers. It’s almost like pushing into a cat’s fur, he thought to himself, fingers digging into the bark once more.  

 

The tree pulls Evan up while he climbs. It hugs him close. It seems to have embodied the entirety of the forest, and it pulls Evan in. 

 

This is his favourite tree in the forest. An white oak. It is wise and beautiful, stretching more than fifty feet into the air. Evan loves it best under the sun, when it glimmer in the bright golden light. Evan took special care of it when he worked here in the summer, and in return, it silently kept him company.  Evan hasn’t climbed in it in a long time. He hasn’t climbed in it since he fell— let go— last summer. 

 

Why did he come back? He asks himself: why did he come back to the same place, high up in mid air, on the same old branch? 

 

He looked around. Everything is so familiar. The white oak welcomes him with its usual silence. He is alone. 

 

He messed up again. He was too startled to respond when John tried to say hi to him this morning, and he spilled Sam’s coffee when he tried to shake his hand, and he was too embraced to apologize to Miranda after he has bumped into her, and… Community college has started since last month, and Evan Hansen is yet to make a friend.  

 

It’s nothing new, but mind you, some things never go on to become more bearable, even with repeated exposure: such is the case with shame, with loneliness, and with life. 

 

Once in a while, he would think of the Murphys. He would think of Cynthia’s organic-rose-scented embrace, of Larry’s warm (and heavy) palms on his shoulders, of their really soft carpets, well-heated living room, the countless dinners and conversations they had together, the tears they shared. Also, he would think of Zoe. He would always think of Zoe. 

 

At first, whenever he thinks of her, all the tiny details floods his mind (i.e. her strange glittery hairbands, her laced unicorn t-shirts, the twenty three pairs of identical acid-bleached jeans in her closet, etc.). At first, whenever he thinks of Zoe, she is always near, so near that he could almost _feel_ her.  He could close his eyes and feel softness of her skin, the sweet curve in her neck, the warmth of her breathe, and ah, of course, her fierce unyielding kiss. At first, whenever he thinks of Zoe, the two of them exist as one piece of inseparable memory.  Gradually, they begins to disentangle. He would only think of the gentle shadows that fluttered under her lashes, the honeyed flames in her eyes, a secrete phrase they shared or a harmless joke…  But now, these memories are also gone.  They melt away piece by piece, until all that is left for him is her soft, joyful chuckle— distant and mystical, which rings in the back of his head like the delicate wings of a dragonfly. 

 

He does not hold the right to remember Zoe as if she is his old love, just as the fact that he does not have the right to remember Cynthia and Larry as if they were his family. He has no right because it is all a lie. He thinks of all the times they spent together whenever he could, but only as if he is trying to recall on a distant dream. Yes, that is it. They are merely a dream from the past, a dream that he once desperately tried to keep alive. In that dream he has everything he ever wanted, but outside of it he is alone. Nothing ever belonged to him, not even Zoe. 

 

He knew it all along. Nevertheless, how could Evan Hansen ever resist the chance to take part in a dream so sweet?

 

Evan looks down towards the forrest floor. 

 

From where he is, the earth seems infinitely distant. The damp forest soil seems soft and inviting under the glistering sunlight, which made them oddly comforting — just like the way it is last summer. 

 

Evan draws a deep breath in. He has always been a little scared of height, but he was never scared when he is climbing a tree. His psychiatrist theorizes that there is a natural defence mechanism which his body employs. Evan doesn’t know if she is correct, nor does he cares. Psychiatrists always have some sort of theory, or experimental drugs, or evidence-based therapy… They always have new something for him to try.  They are always so _nice_ , too. Their patient-friendly smiles seem to be an integral part of their attire. Evan often wonders if it is inscribed into their code of ethics: _be sure to wear the smile at all time_ or something.  More importantly, however, they are busy people. Evan’s meetings with them never go past  the fifteen-minute mark. Those meetings always start with a brief chat about the weather,  which leads into some questionnaires, and ends with Evan going home with a new set of medication. Sometimes he gets drugs for depression, sometimes for anxiety, sometimes for both. The psychiatrists never seem to notice when he stumbles over his words, or when he gets to nervous that he shots at the smallest thing… they only ever looks at him calmly, and smiles. They look at him as if he is just another case study. 

 

Evan does not  want to be just another case study. he wants ...he wants something else. He wants _to be_ something. He wants to be something special. He wants to be something _more_ than what  Evan Hansen could ever be.

 

At first he did not know what that _thing_ is. At first all he wanted to do was to comfort a grieving mother, to live up to her expectations— but then he got rewarded, with warmth, with kindness, and with love. 

 

And so there came more lies. 

 

The most frightening part of the whole experience is how easily all those lies came to him. Elaborate, heart-warming lies poured out of Evan, as if they have been held inside for the entirety of his life. Perhaps they have been there all his life.  He used to spend days coming up with stories to tell: stories about picnics in the orchards, about writing secret emails, about climbing an oak tree with a friend… He did it all the time, whenever he had to sit beside an empty table during lunchtime, or when he looked onto a busy baseball field, or when he had to face an empty dinner table, et cetera et cetera.  He did it in the midst of every single moment of his loneliness. Thus, when the time came, all he had to do was to summon up the imaginary friend he had, gave him the name “Conor Murphy”, and the deed is done. 

 

At first he merely wanted ... he wanted… he wants— 

 

Evan held his thoughts and stands up once more, with both of his hands holding the tree trunk for support. 

 

He holds his gaze up, and stares at the thin rim of white light where the trees meet the sky. The intensity of the sunlight burns his face and makes his eyes sour. He feels light headed. The weather is so lovely, he thought: it was exactly like this last summer, on that day. On that day he also stood here, gazing into the light, dazzled by all his thoughts. On that particular day, he thought that he had messed everything up again, once and for all. All his failures kept washing over him like soft waves, again and a gain. The effect of which is almost calming. At first he was shaking at bit, from the bitter-cold waves, but it soon numbed into a comforting nothingness. On that day Evan felt empty, and emptiness was calming and _nice_. He has never felt so calm and coolheaded in his life. That’s when he heard his name, again and again, from beneath him. It is as if someone is standing on the ground, calling out to him. 

 

 _Evan, Evan, Evan_. The voice calls to him, softly, sweetly. 

 

Evan Hansen heard his own voice, echoing in his head: 

 

 _Maybe, maybe he will come and get me, maybe he will run to me—_  

 

That’s where he found the courage to let go.

 

So he let go.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, no one stood under the tree. Unfortunately, no one was actually there to get him.  Not then, not now, nor will there ever be. 

 

 _Not then, not now, nor will there ever be._ Evan thought to himself again. He let go of his right hand, didn't look down. 

 

No on is there under the tree, and yet he is letting go, just like how he did on that day. 

 

No one is there. 

 

“Hey, are you thinking about doing something stupid again?” A voice asks— it is Connor’s voice.”

 

“Eh, not really, no.” Evan finds himself answering: “Just trying to recall how it felt.”

 

“You mean how it felt to be suicidal?” Connor’s voice is very skeptical: “You are thinking about killing yourself _again_?”

 

“Yes, I… No, no I’m not—-” Evan’s voice keeps rising as he speaks: “ I, I, what I mean is, yes I am trying to remember what it felt like to be suicidal but but but I am not actually thinking about killing myself and  like I don’t actually want to die thank you very much thanks for your concern even though I don’t think you are actually concerned about my wellbeing but like thanks anyway eh I’m sorry I don’t know why I am thanking you it must sounds annoying OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY.”

 

“……”

 

For a while there was no reply. Then came the simple question: “So?”

 

The sound of Connor’s voice rises and falls against the wind, as if he exists in multiple places at once. It is mystical and surreal, yet also exactly how Evan remembered Connor’s voice to be. He can image Connor’s cheeky smart-ass grin as he asks the question— but of course, the imaginary Connor. Evan has never seen the _real_ Connor Murphy does anything except for shouting and frowning. Evan realized how little he knew of Connor. The actual Connor. The one who had live and died.

 

Even so, Evan realized that he misses Connor. The real one, or the imagined one?  It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.  

 

Evan misses having someone to talk to. 

 

So he cleared his throat and decide to try the question again. It is more difficult that he could ever imagine:

 

“I want— _I think about_ — death. I think about it all the time. I am thinking about it now. I’m thinking about death and I’m thinking about dying right now but I know I won’t do it. That’s the problem— the problem is that I know I won’t do it. I can never feel the way I felt last summer, and I am beginning to wonder if I ever will again. Even on that day, even on the day when I decide to tell the truth and end it all, even when they realized what I have done and even as they all just stared at me… when Larry and Cynthia and Zoe… when Zoe stared at me… even at that moment, I did not feel the same urge. Yes yes yes I know, I know all of this is my fault and I asked for it. Maybe I am also relieved that it is all over maybe I am secretly waiting for the finial revelation—- but, but but but I don’t understand. I don’t understand why I couldn’t go back anymore. I don’t understand why I cannot feel the way I felt last summer… I can’t believe I was so close to it—  I can’t believe I have had the audacity to let go.”

 

Evan stopped for a moment, and let it all hang there. Everything he has uttered was fragmented and slow, as if he is working through the pieces for the first time as he speaks. It is all incredibly difficult. 

 

When Evan finally started to speak, his voice is deep with sorrow and with pain: “ I mean, I mean… Isn’t it all just strange? I, Evan Hansen, never, eh, never again thought of—I never did, even though I am more lonely, more at loss than I ever was. Even so, I never—”

 

“You will never get to choose the neat, clean path again.” Connor finished his thought for him, but his voice is cold and cruel: “Why, are you regretting it?”

 

“I don’t know… I don’t know.” Evan sounds genuinely confused. Then he realized and asked: “What about you, Connor? Do you regret it?

 

“How am I suppose to know? I am not the actual Connor Murphy. I am merely an image of your imagination. Illusion. Fabrication. Whatever you want to call it.”  Connor’s voice answered half-heartedly: “The real Connor Murphy would probably strangle you to death before initiation a conversation, considering how much you fantasize about his sister.”

 

“……”

 

“Don’t fret it.” The voice, _Connor’s voice_ , gave out a soft laughter. There is a pause. Then, the voice softly and quickly adds: “Regardless of what I've said, I still, hm, thanks for doing… for doing whatever it was that you did. For the Murphys, obviously.”

 

"You weren’t the real Connor Murphy, remember? Being a mere image of my imagination, you don’t get to say that.” Evan bites back, can't help but feeling a little smug. 

 

The voice was unimpressed: “Cut it out, Evan Hansen.You wished that Connor would say it, so I did, and that’s all there is to that.”

 

“Oh.” Even said: “… _Oh._ ”

 

There is silence. 

 

Evan stood there, on the tree, and thought it all over. In the end, he carefully, quietly adds:  “Thank you.”

 

_Thank you, Connor Murphy._

 

The wind carried Evan’s murmur far into the air. It hung there, amidst the soft wind and birdsong for a moment longer, but no one answered to it.  

 

There is nothing to be surprised of, is there? No one is there after all. 

 

No one is there, under the tree. No one is there for Evan Hansen, and so he feels lonely. But it is no matter. He will never get to choose the “neat, clean path” again. He still has a group project write-up to complete, and mom is still waiting for him to go home. On his way home there will be more loneliness that awaits him, and he must face all of it on his own time. He must let his fingers go, and let go of that old, perfect dream he was once apart of. He must stand still as the ringing of Zoe’s laughter melts away, and try not chase after it. Then, once all of that is gone, he must learn to catch something new with his empty, scarred hands. 

 

Maybe there will never be anything that compares to Zoe, maybe there will. It is no matter. 

 

It is no matter. 

 

Evan Hansen took a deep breath. He began to climb downwards. 

 

-FIN-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading :)  
>   
> Feel free to point out any grammatical and syntactical errors or just tell me how you think! Any thought will be much appreciated! I am beginning to think that despite all efforts I will never be able to become proficient in the English language *sob*


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